Dream Baby, of the Big Tomorrow

This is something I stumbled upon that I'd written in the summer of 2009:



I'm lucid, but only for a second. It's a nice refresher from the shiftless dreams and waving to the big bye bye of normal day musings. This moment seems to last during the time span of boiling egg. It's going to slip though. Crashing. Burning into the distance.

I fight the urge to fall back into old patterns. Match, one. Puff, two. Cumm, three. It's all just a mundane repeat of the night before. An endless cycle of pounding and thrashing. I watch the smoke float from my nose in blue whisps. Think about the way that broad felt last night. All smooth skin and perky nipples.

I thought about masterbating. But I'm too lazy. I'd rather feel the shake of a man under me. Or tremor of a woman's legs as she explodes. Cum-shots and refugees.

I slide thin arms into silk chiffon and tie the robe at my waist. I dial a number. Any number. It doesn't really matter at this point. I just want to feel another body.

Jess is coming over. He's always up to a morning of flouncing between egyptian sheets.

I wash my face in the sink. Splash. Cold to hot. Hot to cold. I look up, into the swirling pool of metal and sand. The mirror. The door. I stare.

The person in the mirror is not me.

Sinner for a Saint

There was this guy, Nell. He had sweet smelling skin, like cinnabuns and Christmas. And this sexy little abs that made me want to throw him down fuck him like I only had a day left to live.

But the problem with Nell, was, well, see, Nell was a whore. I don't mean that he slept around with everything that'd hold still long enough. No, he was an honest to God whore, who'd palm sweaty, crinkled dollar bills after a fun little fuck-fest.

The shittiest part of it all was that I loved him. God, I loved him.

We'd sit under the maple tree, talking about philosophy. He'd sing me these cute little songs to me:

When heaven was hell on earth,
I'd caress your checks,
Touch you, Move you, Fuck you
Bring us closer to God.

That sort of thing. They were a lot cuter, sexier even when he sang them. Don't let the lyrics fool you. He'd carry my heart in his palm with those words.

But that was then.

Right now, right now I've been standing here, looking down at his body, a twisted heap of bluish skin and coagulated blood. Right now, I've been trying to decide whether to call the police or just look for clues myself.

In a town like this, the police don't give a rat's ass for a whore. He and I, we're alone in this big city. And I gotta find out who took my sweet angel, sins and all.

Oh, just something short.

Our skin touched. His body was so beautiful, like touching a chiselled statue. He was my David, my statue carved in the mound of Michelangelo's thoughts.

I caressed his skin, and slid my tongue down the length of his body, coming closer to trails of red and pubic hair. Ah, what patriotism unfolded. His skin, bluing around the edges, glowed next to streams of coursing red.